


Never Been So Welcome

by Kastaka



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uhura, Sulu and Chekov undertake a rather difficult away mission assignment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Been So Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonisland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonisland/gifts).



Sweeping imperiously into the feasting hall, past the honour guard, Uhura meets the host at the inner door. She looks suspiciously as if she could be half-Klingon herself, as she takes Uhura's hand and kisses the hastily replicated signet ring.

"Subcommandant T'kala'i, at your service," their host almost chuckles, in a voice that strongly implies quite the reverse. "I do hope you and your companions have had an excellent journey, and that you find our hospitality adequate to your needs."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" replies Uhura smoothly, surveying the scene.

There is a fine banquet laid out on the long table in front of them, and while it is the focus of the space, the hall has wide areas to either side. A rack of swords is propped up against one wall, and the other side of the table is taken up with cushions, small tables laden with sweetmeats, and hookah pipes, surrounding a small cleared area. The inhabitants of the room stand by their chairs; a woman at each chair, and one to four men in train behind each.

T'kala'i herself has half a dozen, flanking her in an almost military formation. They are bare to the waist and their skirts are heavily embroidered with gems and precious metals, in a rather tacky and inelegant arrangement to Federation eyes.

Uhura wonders whether the patterns on her own escort might be a little too refined.

Attempting not to show their curiosity - eyes front and alert for potential danger, of course, that is only to be expected, but careful not to make eye contact with T'kala'i or the other inhabitants of the room - Chekov and Sulu stand a pace or two back and just off each shoulder.

Sulu doesn't appear to be having any difficulty acting the part, although there is a subtle overtone of hurt pride if you know where to look. Chekov, as usual, is trying too hard; also, trying quite hard not to feel terribly embarrassed at his state of mild undress.

"Do take your place of honour at the table," T'kala'i urges Uhura. "The meal is just about to start."

It is surprisingly difficult for her, to stride confidently over to the place prepared for her and suppress the urge to glance worriedly over her shoulders to see how the others are doing. She is not sure whether she has got the best part of this or the worst; all of the talking and interaction is her problem, but at least she is allowed to look like she possesses her own power and volition.

As she pulls out her chair, T'kala'i does likewise. There are a few moments where the host is clearly testing her, but soon they pass and both of them sit within a couple of seconds of the other; and so does the rest of the table.

She observes carefully how the others eat, and does likewise. Trying not to think about how humiliating it must be, when she holds up tidbits over her shoulder in an affectedly careless fashion; certainly trying not to think about how it is less unwelcome that she was expecting, when the two fellow offices stoop to take them from her hands with only their lips.

Some pleasantries and general banter are exchanged with the Subcommandant - a title which rather plays down the authority of the woman sat before her, who essentially has the power of life and death over every resident of this planet, and answers only to her Klingon overlords. Uhura asks about the local wildlife, and weaves tales from away missions past into her fabrications of hunting expeditions to rival T'kala'i's stories. Compliments are paid to the food.

Then the conversation takes a turn for the perilous.

"I know why you are here," declares T'kala'i. "I cannot yet tell if you are very wise or very foolish, however. Tell me, what do you think I owe those that you are at war with?"

"They appear to think that you owe them one prisoner," replies Uhura, deciding not to keep all of her cards to herself.

"A fine diplomat's answer," smiled T'kala'i, dangerously. "And I am sure you are a fine diplomat. But do you bring strength in your wake?"

"Strength enough to be eating at your table," Uhura replies, taking another large bite of wildfowl to illustrate her point.

"Many have eaten here," T'kala'i notes, "but somewhat fewer have left these halls afterwards. You would do well to remember that, visitor from the stars."

"I would not dream of underestimating you so incautiously," replies Uhura.

"Enough of business at the meal," declares T'kala'i. "But after, we will dance, you and I."

It is difficult to concentrate on the rest of the meal. She wants to turn around and gain some reassurance, or at least relieve the ennui of the two crewmates who are apparently required to prove her right and authority to be here by their subservience. And should she be feeding them more as an apology - it is surprisingly good food - or less, to avoid them having to debase themselves too often?

Eventually the last course is served, and T'kala'i rises from the table; Uhura rises a fraction later.

"You have been good company," T'kala'i allows. "Perhaps I will make of you my show of strength, after all. But your silent ones have yet to prove their worth, and so the worth of your people."

For a moment, Uhura devoutly wishes that she was telepathic; she could swear that she can almost feel Chekov bristling behind her, ready to assert how he is far from one of their enslaved 'silent ones' and that he would show T'kala'i any day she liked.

But her fellow officers are sufficiently disciplined to keep in line, or at least sufficiently in line that she cannot tell from T'kala'i's expression that she has realised anything is amiss.

There is some kind of mild commotion at the door. She is too busy paying attention to T'kala'i to really listen to it, but later Sulu will tell her that it was the first messenger arriving.

"I am sure you would not have come to my hall without one skilled in the dance of blades," drawls T'kala'i. "Which of your hands is it? We will have one of yours and one of mine dance."

Uhura gestures with her right hand. One of T'kala'i's men steps out of formation, and so does Sulu, mirroring him perfectly.

"Excellent!" replies T'kala'i, almost clapping in glee. "I do love a little light competition after dinner. Do remind him to yield before he is grievously injured; I am not certain our physicians can adequately treat your kind."

Uhura nods to Sulu as he matches the other man's stride towards the rack of weapons. He has dropped into the kind of focus that she has seen on him only rarely, and usually only in the midst of a disastrous ground battle; he does not acknowledge her.

She doesn't think he should have acknowledged her, with the roles that they are playing, but for some reason she still feels a little disappointed.

T'kala'i withdraws a little to give them space, and Uhura moves to the other corner of the 'dance floor', hearing Chekov's slightly reluctant footsteps behind her.

Another messenger arrives at the door during the bout. Uhura can hear the shouted argument that she is having with the door guards. T'kala'i waves one of her escort off, irritably; she is focussed solely on the dance of steel.

It is rather beautiful to watch, Uhura has to admit. The graceful interplay of muscle and sweat, the skirts moving in an almost hypnotic pattern, the moments of stillness cut short by T'kala'i's fighter pressing the attack too early. It is clear that he is fighting to best display, and Sulu is fighting to best effect.

Except that he is not pushing the advantage either; he draws a couple of blows across his attacker's body, just barely opening the skin, but not driving home for a serious wound.

"Such a shame," remarks T'kala'i, as her silent escort returns from the door, having sent the messenger away in no uncertain terms. "Good on the defence, but no killer instinct, that one; just like the people you claim to represent."

Something switches in that instant, and as if he has been playing down his abilities considerably, Sulu ducks under a swing of the display-fighter's sword and places his blade directly through his opponent's heart.

It is difficult to get instant stopping power in a sword blow, and Sulu leaves his sword behind as his dodge continues between his assailant's legs. 

And the other man takes a few moments to fall to his knees, swing wildly a few more times, realise that he is dead, and have the light go out of his eyes.

Calmly, Sulu stalks over to the body, turns him over on his back, draws the sword back out of his rib-cage, and wipes it on the dead man's skirt.

She can hear Chekov swallow, loudly.

"Perhaps I have underestimated you," allows T'kala'i. Uhura can see that the subcommandant is trying very hard not to look taken aback. Two of her other escorts head over to the body, while Sulu replaces his sword and heads behind Uhura to the right.

His breathing is incredibly measured, in a way that suggests that he is suppressing the reaction that will come when he ceases to maintain that steady, almost meditative rhythm.

Uhura has less trouble than she would have hoped, trying to suppress her reaction. Some part of her mind is reminding the other just how many lives are at stake here, but her professionalism is keeping both a long way from her face.

"But you have two," T'kala'i continues, "and so surely your second is as special as your blade-dancer? Perhaps, indeed, in the other pursuit for which my court is famous throughout the many worlds?"

She cannot see or feel Chekov tense up at that declaration, but she unavoidably glances over the other side of the table, and imagines it anyway.

The third messenger has started a fight over by the door, which everyone inside is studiously avoiding. So far she is doing well to hold her own with twinned swords against the door-guards' ceremonial halberds.

"Why, of course," is what Uhura actually says. "Lead on."

And she follows T'kala'i and her retinue over to the cushions, wondering how long this is going to have to go on for; they had prepared for the trial of blades by involving Sulu, but they had hoped that the mission would be done by this point.

T'kala'i arranges herself langorously on the cushions, and takes up one of the hookah pipes. Her harem, now reduced by one, settles around her like a pack of hyenas waiting for the lioness to have had her fill.

"Now, I am feeling generous," explains T'kala'i, the glint in her eye demonstrating that she means anything but. "As I have an embarrassment of riches, despite your lucky triumph, you may choose your contestant."

Uhura looks from one well-muscled, crouching figure to another, stalling for time as she looks at their downturned eyes and painted lashes, their bronzed skin and long plaited beards. 

Chekov is a good lad, but she wouldn't bet on him in a wrestling bout with any of them.

The sound of phaser fire from the doorway has never been so welcome.

All three of the Starfleet officers break into a sprint towards the open doors, as T'kala'i draws her distinctly non-traditional sidearm and tries to get a clear shot. In her frustration she takes down a couple of her own people with beams of searing green light, but the confusion has lasted just long enough.

Uhura, Sulu and Chekov barrel through the doorway as Spock flips open his communicator with one hand and calmly intones, "Four to beam up."

"Report," demands Uhura, as they appear back in the safe confines of the Enterprise.

Spock raises one eyebrow at the last traces of imperious command in her voice, but acquiesces. "We located the hostage and extracted him from the shielded area. Unfortunately, there appears to have been a second shield generator which was activated around the Subcommandant's banqueting hall shortly after your arrival. The guards on the door should make a full recovery."

"Unlike one of the Subcommandant's harem," Chekov could not resist replying, sounding rather proud of their achievement.

"If you need me," says Sulu, voice tight as a bow-string, "I will be in my quarters."

"Dismissed, lieutenant," Spock confirms.

"Permission to go and get some real clothes on, Commander?" asks Chekov.

"Certainly, ensign," echo Uhura and Spock at once.

Watching him go, Uhura does not bother asking for permission to leave; she simply walks out of the transporter room ready to get changed back into her uniform and be ready for the next shift.


End file.
